


Say It To Me Now

by MatildaSwan



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post 4x07, Stupid angsty babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A silhouette sat on his couch; a familiar head of hair sitting with her back to him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say It To Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Say It To Me Now by Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová
> 
> ttoi kinkmeme: The night Malcolm turns himself in, Nicola shows up at his flat with the bottle of good Aardbeg he gave her the night she became Leader. "Having it out" ensues.
> 
> Also, I'm a total fucking pillock, and forgot to thank the ever lovely Alex for her help. Sorry darling.

Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to sleep before the clock ticked over to midnight; had the _chance_ to sleep before then. It felt unnatural, lying in bed at eight o’clock: warm and snug in soft cotton. Quiet as his years in opposition had been, they hadn’t been _dead_ quiet; just boring and a waste of his time. So he’d decided to do something about it and look where that had landed him: closer to the reaper and past political suicide.

Malcolm kicked the covers down the end of the bed with a growl, shaking his head vigorously. As if physically ejecting thoughts out through his ears was an option: Tickell and Tory twat DoSAC, Dan Miller and his new lapdog, Whitehall and twenty years of his life, the fucking inquiry and the saga of a trial he knew was coming. He was so tired of _thinking._

He juttered down the stairs, thoughts of a soothing cup of tea before bed trumped by the urge to dig up that bottle of whisky he’d stashed away months ago. He turned on the kitchen light and started rummaging through the cupboards; hardwood floor cool under his soles. He rummaged around the pantry until he found a bottle of scotch at the back of the top shelf, hidden out of sight. He grabbed a glass of the sink and turned towards the living room.

His foot caught on what should have been a clean floor and he stumbled. He caught himself, putting his cup back on the bench and bending down to pick up the offending item; a decidedly austere heel he definitely didn’t remember leaving there. He heard the clink of glass on glass and the shuffle of material, and looked towards the coffee table. A silhouette sat on his couch; a familiar head of hair sitting with her back to him.

He walked over and stood beside the arm of the lounge, kitchen light casting a shadow on the carpet.

“Hello, Malcolm,” voice slightly thicker than usual; staring straight ahead in the dim.

“What the fuck you doing in my house?” dropping the shoe and bottle on the cushion and folding his arms.

 “There were journalists out the front when I got here, so I let myself in the back door. “You should change the security code, too obvious.” Malcolm swallowed the barrage of abuse he’d been intending to throw at her, despite-himself-impressed Nicola had managed to break into his house.

“Doesn’t answer the bloody question.” He’d never seen her so soft, open bottle of Aardbeg on the coffee table and her feet curled in under herself.

“Your life is worse than mine,” finally looking up at him, as if that explained everything.

“So you’ve come to gloat?” he’d never taken her for vindictive. “Real fucking charming, darling.”

“No, my life is shit because of you,” simple and honest; eyes shining but no trace of pity, for herself or Malcolm. “Yours is shitter because of me, but it doesn’t make me happy.”

Malcolm was taken aback; he’d forgotten the Nicola he’d first met. The one in the too-loud dress and the tonnes of hair; who had no idea what schadenfreude meant until he’d yelled it into her. The one who was actually interested in people, before cabinet had beaten that out of her and he’d convinced her she needed power to make a difference. The one looking at him now: Malcolm had forgotten people could care.

Nicola broke eye contact when he stayed silent. She leant forward and settled her glass on a coaster, picking up the bottle instead. She studied the label for a moment: Malcolm recognised it; he’d given it to her the day his ‘master plan’ had come to fruition.

He had swanned into her shoe-box of an office, bow clad present in hand: proud smile minuscule compared to hers, but no less intense. Nicola had beamed at him, ecstatic and thrilled and he’d congratulated her on a job well done. She’d laughed, quipped she knew he meant himself and thanked him anyway. Malcolm had baulked; she always surprised him when she caught up to the game, then realised she really didn’t mind. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’, she’d said.

“I’d always planned on sharing it, when I had reason,” her voice bringing Malcolm back to his lounge room. “But in two years, nothing ever went right enough to warrant opening it.” She filled up her tumbler and handed Malcolm the bottle. “Neither of us have any reason to celebrate, so I thought we should do it together. Saves me drinking myself into a stupor in an empty house. And you, apparently,” nodding to the unopened bottle beside her. Malcolm just stood and stared.

“Just drink the fucking scotch, Malcolm,” she barked, mirth and betrayal clawing their way up her throat. He shifted, taking the bottle from her and turning away and walked back into the kitchen.

He filled his glass, grabbing a bag of crisps from the cupboard on his way back. He sat opposite her, dropping the packet on the table and the bottle back on the table. He mouthed the liquid, hissing as it burnt hot down his throat. Nicola smiled and sipped at hers, content to keep her jabs at herself for the moment.

They sat, staring at everything but each other in silence, until Malcolm refilled his glass with a few more fingers than he really needed and swallowed the excess in a mouthful. If he thought hard enough he could remember what it felt like to actually care about other people’s lives. “Empty house?”

Nicola glanced at him over her whisky.

“James left, before the inquiry,” statement of fact, devoid of emotion: she’d cried those out days ago. “Took the kids then dumped then with his mother, twat that he is. But they haven’t seen their Grandparents in a while, so I thought I’d let them stay for a bit. It gave me some space to sort things out.”

All too soon they had reached why she was here, why she had come; the reason she had broken into his house in the dead of night. The bloody inquiry. Deliberate or subconscious, Nicola had come for answers. They held eye contact; shuddered breaths and racing thoughts.

“You were quiet batpeople,” disappointment, not disbelief: Malcolm buried his shame in his scotch.  “And the leak.”

“You fucking had to go. For the party, you needed to go,” he flared up: his actions were defensible. It didn’t matter if no one else ever agreed with him, outside of Miller and his Border Ollie: they got what they wanted, never mind the ethics. Malcolm knew he’d been right. “You were toxic, poison and we were fucking rotting from the inside out. There was nothing else I could do.”

Nicola laughed: sharp and harsh. “You’re such an arse,” standing and turning her back to him.

“No, Nicola!” He implored. “Don’t just storm out in a huff!” that thought bothered him, far more than it had a right to. She turned back, bemused smirk on her lips.

“I was going to get ice,” quirking an eyebrow at him. She leant against the door frame, studying him in the gloom. “I know I wasn’t the best leader. I’m not forceful enough, not impulsive enough. But I can’t have been that bad,” mask cracking for the first time, uncertainty peering through.

“Oh, I think you’ll find you were,” smug and conceited, looking away and downing the last of his drink. “You were turning my party into a fucking laughing stock.” Nicola hardened, nostrils flaring and posture righting.

“Fine, Malcolm, whatever you say. But why so publically?” root of the problem and why it had stung so much. “Why choke me like that, stab me in the back? Rip out my fucking spine and smack me in the face with it? Why not be subtle, like you are with everyone else? Why me, Malcolm?” whispered voice cracking slightly. Malcolm stared at the bottle: the wallpaper; his bare feet. Anything but Nicola’s backlit figure.

“Were you that fucking bored, had nothing better to do with you time?” Her voice picked up, and Malcolm vaguely wondered if there were any reporters still outside. “Was all part of your little game plan, to break me, humiliate me? Did you fucking enjoy it?” trembling with anger and brimming eyes. “I bet you fucking did. Bet you loved making yourself look indispensable for Dan Miller. Well, Malcolm, look how well that worked out,” she laughed, pained and wet; liquid sloshing out of her glass as she swang her arms.

“I didn’t do it for Miller, the fucking cock,” spiting venom at the carpet, as if that might help. He looked up: Nicola was necking her glass empty. “I did it for the party. We were fucking useless as we were and you know it!  

“I don’t care! You fucked me over, Malcolm!”  Nicola fumed, blood practically boiling over. “I trusted you-“

“No you didn’t.”

Nicola snapped.

She strode forward; the interruption breaking what little control she’d managed to keep. Glass rolling on the floor behind her feet, she slammed her hands down on the sofa back, either side of Malcolm’s head. “I fucking trusted you, and you turn around and you fucked me!” hissed in his face: quiet and dangerous.

“No, I didn’t, Nicola,” Malcolm jeered, teeth bared; unhinged and red rimmed eyes. “That was the fucking problem!”

Nicola deflated, breath giving out as she lost her anger. She stepped back and sat on the lounge arm, remembering the Christmas party the year before. Drunk and stupid, grabbing his hand and pulling him into an empty room. His body hard against hers, lipstick stains on his cheeks as his fingers trailed up her thighs: glorious and intoxicating.

Until he’d growled her name into the side of her neck.

She’d remembered where she was and _who_ she was with and _what_ she was doing. True to form, Nicola had panicked. She’d pushed him off her; clumsily fixing her dress as she mumbling a half hearted threat to castrate him if he ever mentioned it again, before running out of the room. To his credit, he never had.

“ _That’s_ what all this was about?” clarity and irritation inflating her lungs. “For fuck sake, Malcolm! You destroyed my career because of a fucking bruised _ego_?”

“You fucking stopped listening to me after that,” beet red and raging. “How the fuck am I meant to do my job if you don’t fucking listen to me?!" 

“I…no.” Nicola swallowed her rebuttal. “It wasn’t…I didn’t, did I?” Brow creasing as she thought. “But why bring that up now?” Looking over at Malcolm with giant eyes. They shrunk to a glare as he stared back. “Why not when it might have actually done me some good? Why act like judge and jury and my _fucking_ executioner!” Nicola shouted, anger blazing again. Malcolm fidgeted in his seat, panicked like a cornered animal.

Nicola tapped her foot; brisk and impatient, and a switch flicked. Malcolm leapt forward, kicking the table on his way: wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to her feet. He crashed his lips against hers, thumb brushing against her cheek. Nicola’s mind reeled, confused and catching up: body throbbing despite her better judgment. He was warm and determined; his tongue scraped over her teeth and she pushed her body against his. He staggered, falling towards the bookshelf, taking her along with him and spinning. She hit the wood and they broke apart, breathless and flushed. Malcolm forged a trailed down her neck: mouth wet and scalding on her skin.

“I’m sorry,” barely audible, almost lost amidst her moans. She tensed against him, pulling back and staring: still standing so close her vision blurred.

This was them, rage and hatred masking lust and stupidity. Silent when they should talk: shouting when they should whisper; screams and cries echoing off the walls of Whitehall. Reckless and wrong: so extremely right that neither cared. This is what it they boiled down to: teeth and tongue and claws; hiding from the rest of the world in Malcolm Tucker’s flat.

“You’re such a twat,” breath ghosting over his lips. He smirked and dipped his head: gentle and soft quickly giving way to frenzied and desperate. Nicola scraped her nails up his neck, knotting her fingers behind his ear; skin tingling as his hands mapped the contours of her body. He danced along the hem of her skirt, the top of her stockings: teasing and shy until she broke away panting.

Nicola grabbed his hand, guiding it higher; practically mewing when he pushed her knickers aside and brushed his fingers against her.

“So wet, Nicola,” growling in her ears. “So eager, you are. I bet I could take you now, spread your legs and thrust into you, hard and deep.” Nicola moaned, images fluttering through her mind. She waved an arm, searching for his hip in the dark. He grabbed her wrist, pinning it above her head. “Not yeah, pet. Soon.”

Her free hand clawed at his back as nimble fingers pushed inside; filling and stretching and _moving_. It had been far too long since someone had touched her and her body was tingling. Her head fell back as she moaned, thumping against the shelf with a dull thud.

Malcolm tore at her shirt: hand and teeth, pulling and nuzzling the material with growing frustration; hand between her legs never faltering. Through the haze of arousal clouding her mind, Nicola managed to wiggle out of her blouse. She pushed off the wall and stripped off her shirt, grinding down on his fingers as she moved. Malcolm grazed a thumb over her clit as he assaulted her breast; tongue burning against lace and nipple, and Nicola melted against him. She same with a shout, hard and fast and _glorious_ ; the arm around her waist and hip digging into hers the only things keeping her upright.

She sank into his shoulder, weak kneed and limp; forehead resting on his collarbone as she tried to catch her breath. She whimpered as he reclaimed his hand. She grabbed his wrist and brought it to her mouth, catching his eyes and holding; her tongue flicking out and over his fingers. Malcolm groaned as he watched, feeling her tongue swirl over his digits. She sucked them clean and kissed him; musk and scotch and he groaned.  

He bucked against her as he lapped at her mouth, grinding against her hip. She made light work of his trousers, pushing his pants down his thighs, taking him in hand. He thrust into her palm, gasping into her collarbone.

“Please, Nic’la,” throaty and hitched. She stripped off her knickers and kinked a leg around his hip; skirt riding up as she pulled him against her. He ground against her, fisting her hair as he sank into her core, “God, yes.”

He was solid and hot, buried hilt deep inside her and spilling filth in her ear. Nicola groaned; guttural and harsh, as he started thrusting, hard and fast. It was all she could do to stay upright as he ploughed into her, until she couldn’t even manage that. She lost purchase on his shoulder and stumbled, single leg too weak to hold her up. Malcolm caught her before she fell, slipping from her folds. She whimpered, “I need to come. Malcolm, please?”

“Fuck it, move,” he barked, demanding and desperate. “Over the fucking table.”

Malcolm hauled her sideways, pushing a chair out of the way and bending her over. He pounded into her, arm snaked around her waist; finger rubbing her clit as he drove into her from behind. Too much and so exquisite, fucked and fingered and his voice in her ear. She arched her back, clenching around him, tight and wet: his lost his rhythm, hips jerking as he spilled into her.

He collapsed onto her back, relishing the tiny fluttering of her muscles around him as the spasms subsided. A few minutes passed and she wriggled against him, unsubtle way of telling him to get off her. Malcolm huffed, retrieving his pants from the floor by their feet.

Nicola looked at him, perched on the side of his dining table with her eyebrow quirked; her cat-that-ate-the-cream smile shining in the gloom. He stared back, until she stepped forward and kissed him; long and lazy and full of promise.

“You won’t need those,” she smirked as she pulled him from the living room and up the stairs, leaving a brief trail of what little clothing she still had one behind them.


End file.
